Seems too cold to be warm August,
too many migraines littering this path.
Winding through the forest of deception,
two only equals one with broken math.
Nightmares of gum drops lace her fingers,
she doesn't know these poems are for her.
How could she, dear reader...
when all that's left is to remember.
If you recall a fairer April,
back before the gardens grew,
then you would know the words I'm screaming...
you would know that they are true.
But darling, shadows take to wing again,
burning bushes through the night.
Does it ever matter in the end..
if the ending isn't truly right?
